Celeste has chosen and lured the charmingly modest Jack Patrick into her web. Jack is enthralled and in awe of his eighth-grade teacher, and, most importantly, willing to accept Celeste’s terms for a secret relationship—car rides after dark, rendezvous at Jack’s house while his single father works the late shift, and body-slamming erotic encounters in Celeste’s empty classroom. In slaking her sexual thirst, Celeste Price is remorseless and deviously free of hesitation, a monstress of pure motivation. She deceives everyone, is close to no one, and cares little for anything but her pleasure.

Tampa is a sexually explicit, virtuosically satirical, American Psycho–esque rendering of a monstrously misplaced but undeterrable desire. Laced with black humor and crackling sexualized prose, Alissa Nutting’s Tampa is a grand, seriocomic examination of the want behind student / teacher affairs and a scorching literary debut.

Amostra do livro

Tampa - Alissa Nutting

Publisher

chapter one

I spent the night before my first day of teaching in an excited loop of hushed masturbation on my side of the mattress, never falling asleep. To bed I’d worn, in secret, a silk chemise and sheer panties, beneath my robe of course, so that my husband, Ford, wouldn’t pillage me. He always wants to ruin the landscape. I find it hilarious that people think Ford and I are the perfect couple based solely on our looks. During his best man’s speech at our wedding reception, Ford’s brother said, You two are like the his-and-hers winners of the genetic lottery. His voice slurring with noticeable envy, he then added that our faces looked Photoshopped. Rather than concluding with any sort of toast, he simply laid the microphone back down on the table after this last line and returned to his seat. His date had a lazy eye we all politely pretended not to notice.

I should find Ford needlessly attractive; everyone else does. "He’s too good-looking, one of my sorority sisters groaned the night after our first double date back in college. I can’t even look at him without feeling like I’m being punched between my legs." My real problem with Ford is actually his age. Ford, like the husbands of most women who marry for money, is far too old. Since I’m twenty-six myself, it’s true that he and I are close peers. But thirty-one is roughly seventeen years past my window of sexual interest.

I suppose in some ways marrying Ford was worth it for the ring alone—it slowed the frenetic pace at which idiot men would hit on me during daily errands. And of course it was a very nice ring. Ford himself is a cop, though his family has a great deal of money. I hoped his wealth might provide me with a distraction, but this backfired—it left me with no unfulfilled urges except the sexual. Just weeks after our wedding, I could feel my screaming libido clawing at the ornately papered walls of our gated suburban home. At dinner I began to sit with my legs clenched painfully together for fear that if I opened them even the slightest bit, it might unleash a shrill wail that would shatter the crystal wineglasses. This didn’t strike me as an irrational belief. The thrum of desire had indeed grown so loud inside me—its electric network toured a constant circuit between my temples, breasts, and thighs—that a moment when lust might be able to operate my labia as a ventriloquist’s dummy and speak aloud seemed inevitable.

All I could think about were the boys I’d soon be teaching. Whether or not it’s the cause, I blame my very first time at fourteen years old in Evan Keller’s basement for imprinting me with a fixed map of arousal—my memory of the event still flows through my mind in animated Technicolor. I was slightly taller than Evan in a way that made me feel half-god to his mortal: every time we made out I had to bend down to reach his lips. Since he was smaller, he was on top, performing with the determined athleticism of a triple-crown jockey until his body was covered in sweat. Afterward I’d gone to the bathroom and then called him in; with an expression of melancholy curiosity, as though transfixed at an aquarium, he’d watched the ruins of my hymen drifting in the blue toilet bowl water like it was the last remaining survivor of a once-plentiful species. I’d felt only an elevating aliveness: it seemed like I’d just given birth to the first day of my actual life.

When Evan had a growth spurt a few months later our sexual dynamic changed—I broke up with him and embarked on a string of repulsive dates with older boys throughout high school before realizing my true attractions lagged several years behind. At university I began throwing myself into classics studies, finding brief solace from my sexual frustrations in texts depicting ancient battles of fervent bloodshed. But my junior year after meeting Ford, I switched my major to education, and now I was finally set with a job that would allow me to go back to eighth grade permanently.

No, it wouldn’t do to have Ford dipping his fingers in the pie on the eve before my years of student and substitute teaching were about to pay off. That night I’d taken such pains to set myself up perfectly, inside and out, like a model home ready for viewing. My legs, underarms, and pubis had been shaved and then creamed; every lotion applied bore the scent of strawberries. I wanted my body to seem made of readily edible fruit. Instead of having the flavor of something nearly three decades aged, my goal was for the slippery organs of my sex to taste like the near-transparent pink shaving gelée applied to them, for the sandy rouge of my nipples to have the flavor of peach cream complexion scrub. In the hopes that the fragrance would absorb, I covered each of my breasts with a layer of whipped mask and let it sit for ten minutes as I shaved; it hardened like the frosting of a confection and cast my excitement beneath a crisp, thin shell. After I’d razored every inch of body hair, I marveled at the buoyant lake of foam and stubble left in the sink. It made me think of the ice cream punch served at junior high school dances.

Imagine the fun I could soon have chaperoning one! Perhaps I’d even get to waltz with one or two of the more outgoing male students under the guise of fun and frivolity—the boys who would confidently grab my hand and lead me to the center of the floor, not realizing until our bodies were pressed that they could smell the pulsing, fragrant wetness just one layer of fabric away beneath my dress. I could subtly push against them, blow their circuitry with the confusion of blithe laughter and small talk funneled into their ear by my moist lips. Of course before I’d say it, I’d look off to the side with an idle stare that suggested nothing was happening, that I hadn’t noticed my pelvic bone ironing across the erect heat inside their rented tuxedo pants. It would require the boy to be an upstanding sort—the type who wouldn’t be able to convey such a sentence to his mother or father, who would second-guess and recall the moment only in the dark, liquored sleep of his loneliest adult moments: post–business dinner while traveling at some Midwestern Comfort Inn, after he’d called his wife and spoken to his children on the phone and then unwrapped the plastic skin of three or four airplane bottles of bourbon, set his alarm, and allowed himself to sit upright in bed with one hand squeezing against the growing thickness of his organ and the memory haunting him—had I really said what he thought he heard? Inside the school’s walls no less, amidst the thundering electronic notes of that year’s favorite pop song, a song he’d listened to at his very first job in the mall as he folded display shirts and greeted mothers and children who entered the store—had I really breathed that sentence into his ear? But I felt it, he’d remind himself, felt my words form in warm air, one sentence whose breathy shape dissipated in seconds, prior to the arrival of understanding or memory. For the rest of his life, part of him would always be on that dance floor, unsure and hungry for clarity. So much so that as an adult in that hotel, he might likely be willing to give up a great deal in exchange for the sense of order that I’d stolen from him, or even to have someone to say to him, It did happen. And I would always know, and he would always be sure, but not certain, that I had drawn the ledge of my pubic bone against the head of his penis, pressed it there like a photograph beneath the plastic velum of an album page cover and whispered that phrase: I want to smell you come in your pants.

The early start time of Jefferson Junior High was one of its main allures: seven thirty A.M. The boys would practically be asleep, their bodies still in various stages of lingering nocturnal arousal. From my desk, I’d be able to watch their exposed hands rubbing across their pants beneath the tables, their shame and their half-inflated genitals arm-wrestling for control.

A second boon was that I was able to get an extension classroom. These were basically trailers behind the school, but they had doors that locked, and, particularly if the loud window AC unit was running, it was impossible to hear what was going on inside. At our July faculty meeting in the cafeteria, none of the teachers had wanted to volunteer to take a mobile unit—it meant a farther walk each morning, having to trek inside the school to use the bathroom, running beneath an umbrella to go unlock the door in the rain. But I’d raised my hand, playing star pupil myself, and requested one. I’m happy to be a team player, I’d announced, flashing my teeth in a wide grin. A red flush had covered Assistant Principal Rosen’s neck; I’d lowered my face so that the trajectory of my eyes was unmistakably upon his crotch, then I pressed my lips together, met his gaze, and smiled a knowing smile. Of course the phrase team player made you imagine me having group sex, my eyes tried to tell him reassuringly. That isn’t your fault.

Very kind of you, Celeste, he’d said, nodding, attempting to write and then dropping his pen, picking it up and nervously clearing his throat.

It’s like I said, Janet Feinlog had piped up behind me. Janet, a world history teacher, was balding prematurely; the dark home-dye job she gave her thinning locks only served to more starkly contrast the white expanses of scalp that shone through. Like most pronounced physical flaws, it did not live in isolation. The compression hose she wore for edema gave her calves and ankles the rippled texture of warped cardboard. Classrooms should be assigned based on seniority.

I agree, I’d said. I’m the new kid on the block. It’s only fair. Then I’d given Janet a practiced smile that she hadn’t returned. Instead she’d taken a yellowed handkerchief out of her purse and coughed in it while looking at me, as though I were a nightmarish figment that would go away if she could simply expel enough phlegm from her lungs.

Having a mobile classroom meant that I could truly make it my own. I’d put up opaque curtains, brought in my favorite perfume and spritzed it onto them, as well as onto the cloth seat of my rolling desk chair. Though I didn’t yet know which of my male eighth-grade English students would be my favorites, I guessed based on name and performed a small act of voodoo, reaching up my dress to the clear ink pad between my legs, wetting my fingertip, and writing their names upon the desks in the first row, hoping by some magic they’d be conjured directly to those seats, their hormones reading the invisible script their eyes couldn’t see. I played with myself behind the desk until I was sore, the chair moistened, hoping the air had been painted with pheromones that would tell the right pupils everything I wasn’t allowed to verbalize. Straddling the desk’s edge, I allowed my outer lips to hover dangerously close to the sharp wooden corner of its surface before sliding forward and sitting down, the hot bareness between my legs pressing against its cold layer of varnish. Those corners. If I wasn’t careful getting up, they would easily scratch into the flesh of my thigh.

The rectangular desk, which was a heartland expanse of flat wood long enough for me to lie down on, felt somehow symbolic, being entirely smooth yet framed within four sharp points of danger—a reminder not to go out of bounds. Each time I’d visited the classroom in the days preceding the school’s start, I’d lain down upon it and pressed my spine into its wood as I stared up at the unfinished fabrication of the ceiling and opened and closed my legs; from the waist down I moved like I was making a snow angel. When I finally sat up, I intentionally scooted off the edge at an angle so the corner would knick my asshole and give me just a little pain to carry around like a consolation prize as I waited for classes to begin. Each time I’d shut down the chugging window AC unit and go to leave, it felt like I was unplugging the engine powering my fantasies. In the silence that followed, the room reconfigured itself: The imagined tang of pubescent sweat became engulfed by the laminate odor of faux-wood walls. The chalk dust floating inside a beam of sun fell stagnant, its particles petrified bugs in the amber of the light. With the air conditioner on, these flecks had been frantic with motion, racing against the vent like lost cells of skin scouring the room for a host—before leaving I’d always stuck my wet tongue out into that light’s honey, fishing it around in circles, hoping to feel satisfied I’d caught something upon it, even if it was too small to feel.

By five A.M. the morning of our first day at school, anticipation was making me feverish. Running the water for a shower, I lifted one foot up onto the countertop to look between my legs, inspecting my sex until the mirror fogged up and censored it from view. My nails, painted cherry squares that gleamed like red vinyl, scratched one last glimpse from the condensation, five thin streaks I could gaze into like open blinds that gave me a final vista on the damage I’d done throughout the night; my genitals were puffy and swollen. Spread open between my fingers, my labia looked like a splitting heart. I tilted my pelvis and hoisted up on the grounded foot’s tiptoes to get a better view. It was impossible not to feel a sullen panic as their folds closed and tasted only themselves—no fresh, squirming insect of thin adolescent fingers against their cheek. I tried to take relief in the shower’s warm surge of water. Thinking about the boys I was hours away from meeting, the fruity syrup of body wash I slathered across my breasts seemed to ferment to an intoxicating alcohol in the air. I smiled imagining them breathing the fragrance of the green apple shampoo I worked into my blond locks; despite the chemical bitters its scented foam belied, when one frothing swath of hair slid down against my face I had to force it into my mouth and suck. Soon I felt so dizzy that I had to kneel down on the shower floor; I clumsily extracted the showerhead from its holder and guided it between my legs, the same way one would put on an oxygen mask that dropped from the plane’s ceiling due to an ominous change in cabin pressure, feeling nothing but a frightened hope for survival.

My heart sank when I checked the weather channel before leaving the house: we were due for record-high humidity. I cringed thinking of my makeup feathered and my hair frizzed by the end of the day. As I cursed, Ford sauntered out of the bedroom with a half erection and gave a large, stretching yawn in front of the window facing the sunrise. Good luck, babe, he called. What a beautiful morning! I slammed the front door on my way out.

Not surprisingly, the temperature inside the faculty lounge was nearly unbearable. We’d gathered at the behest of Principal Deegan, who wasted no time launching into a tepid pep talk. Like all of his public speeches, it heavily relied on the rhetorical device of repeatedly asking Am I right? after every sentence. Gosh, Mr. Sellers, the wiry chemistry teacher next to me, muttered, fanning himself. Like the kids don’t have enough ammo already. Now I have to walk into class with wet armpits. Janet continued making loud crunching noises; I assumed she kept eating handfuls of granola, but after a few investigative glances I realized it was actually aspirin.

I wanted to run from the room to my class; the earliest pupils would be gathering there now. There was a vague burning at the spot where my spine connected my neck and head; my whole body yearned with the tincture of possibility. I felt like an optimistic bride the morning of her arranged marriage: I was feasibly about to meet someone who would come to know me in every intimate way. They are not the enemy, Principal Deegan stressed; the rest of the teachers erupted in pithy laughter.

Suddenly, Janet’s eyes were pinning me to the wall. The polite laughter of agreement in the room had softened to background static between Janet’s ears and she’d heard my silence in response to her joke echo forth like a scream; worse yet, she’d picked up my expression—a snide look of unmistakable contempt. Years of teaching junior high had likely bestowed the derision sensor in her hearing with supernatural powers. Upon seeing her stare at me I immediately melted my face into a grin, but she didn’t return it. Bathroom cigarette monitoring cannot just be an occasional afterthought, Deegan continued. I watched the clock and pretended to think on his words with contemplation. After thirty seconds I looked back and Janet was still staring at me. When the bell rang she dropped several more aspirins into her mouth like cocktail peanuts but didn’t blink.

Go Stallions! Principal Deegan finally called out, his well-formed words brimming with manufactured passion. With the sound of hundreds of students pouring through the hallways just beyond the door, for a moment it seemed as though his call had actually summoned a livestock stampede. I gazed back at his smiling face, his hands enthusiastically raised above his head. Go Stallions! He repeated this a few times with a near-animatronic flair.

I was the first faculty member out the door. In the hallway, the air had taken on the pungent weight of teenage sweat. Loud peals of laughter and shrieks, the type associated with forced tickling, came from every direction. As I made my way to the exit doors, foggy pockets of overzealous cologne hung low amidst herds of swaggering friends; the startling aluminum bangs of lockers being opened and closed and reopened caused me to occasionally flinch. Soon the hallway population formed into a moving herd. A competitive speed was set as students headed to outdoor extension classrooms like mine moved toward the door in a rushing swell; it seemed as though a popular band was about to go onstage. I took the opportunity to pin myself against the back of a male student whose ankles revealed a tan line from athletic socks—likely a cross-country team member. I’m sorry, I whispered hopefully into his ear, I’m being pushed. Was it fate; was he the one? But the face that turned to greet mine was acneic; I quickly extricated my chest from his warm back.

My heart sank as I watched two goofy girls entwine hands and run up to the door of my classroom. From the roster, I knew I had ten boys in the first period, twelve girls. I tried to steel myself—even if there weren’t any suitable options in the first period, I had four other classes, and each one brought more opportunities. That was not to say that it would be easy: my ideal partner, I realized, embodied a very specific intersection of traits that would exclude most of the junior high’s male population. Extreme growth spurts or pronounced muscles were immediate grounds for disqualification. They also needed to have decent skin, be somewhat thin, and have either the shame or the preternatural discipline required to keep a secret.

The door to my classroom took a great deal of force to pull open—the suck of cold air from the window AC unit formed a resisting vacuum. Inside it was dark and cold. Two boys, prankster types, were standing in front of the air conditioner; they immediately ran to their seats with smiles, expecting some kind of chastising line (You two know you’re not allowed to touch that!) that would set them apart and declare them more audacious than their peers. I didn’t get a good look at their faces, but from what I’d spied of their bodies already I knew I wasn’t interested: they were a hodgepodge of pre- and post-puberty. The silhouette of one’s biceps was visible from several feet away. The other had mannish curls of dark arm hair. But the room held others.

I walked straight to the AC unit and stood there, feeling my nipples harden to visibility. For a moment I closed my eyes. I had to stay calm; I had to regard the students like a delicate art exhibit and stay six feet away at all times, lest I be tempted to touch.

Are you the teacher? This voice was also male but slightly too deep. I turned, letting the AC cool the back of my neck.

I am. I smiled. It is really hot out there. I fingered the pencil inside the twisted bun of my hair, but scanning the room I knew it wasn’t yet time to let it down—he wasn’t present, he wasn’t in this class. Yet there was eye candy aplenty. I managed to hold it together during my opening spiel until a young man in the second row who figured no one was looking reached down between his legs and spent a generous amount of time adjusting himself. This caused a brisk tightening in my lungs and chest; I gripped the side of my desk for support, working hard to speak just a few more words to the students without sounding like a labored asthmatic. Introduce yourselves, I managed to say, go around the room. State your hobbies, your darkest and most primitive fears, whatever you want. But as my arousal slowly came back down to a controllable level, a new sort of panic gripped me. All the alluring males in my class seemed unusable—too boisterous, overly confident.

By the end of the second period, when it became clear that class held no winners either, I found myself wondering whether or not to bail entirely over the lunch break. Had I simply thrown myself deeper into torture with no hope of release? Now I’d have to interact with them, see them daily, yet none of them seemed promising enough to attempt anything further with. Perhaps I’d be better off substituting during the fall and trying my luck again in the spring elsewhere. So we don’t have any homework? one student asked as the bell rang. Due to the sallow smallness of her eyes and nose, her retainer was her most prominent feature. I wanted to forcibly

Avaliações

First and foremost, in the publisher’s own words Alissa Nutting’s debut novel, Tampa, is a serio-comedy. It is meant to be sexually explicit, reminiscent of American Psycho in the character’s psychology, and satirical about desire. It is not for the easily disturbed or sexually timid. The subject matter is one of society’s largest taboos, and the main character is a narcissistic psychopath.That being said, Tampa is an absolutely brilliant novel and will rank among the top books of the year. Celeste truly is every single foul word and clinical label one could throw at her, and yet Ms. Nutting creates a character that is ever so slightly sympathetic in her depravity. Jack, for all his youth, is not quite the innocent he appears to be, and the ticking time bomb that is their relationship is a fascinating study of power and sex.Celeste is a psychiatrist’s dream case because she displays such a wide variety of mental disorders and addictions. She is all about power and sex. She is the type of person who feels that the world owes her everything because she is beautiful. She uses her outward appearance to hide her thoughts and present the world with a model front – polite, helpful, and sincere. When that fails, she uses sex to manipulate others. She is psychopathic in the truest sense – charming, manipulative, capable, highly organized, remorseless, and disregarding of the laws and the rights of others. She is also highly sexualized, given over to pleasuring herself for hours on end and still ravenous for more. She is psychopathy, narcissism, and sexual addiction all rolled up in one package.However, her mental disorders also create a sense of the true sadness behind her situation. She knows her predatory nature, her seduction and use of teenage boys, as well as her behaviors surrounding anything having to do with achieving her goals is so very wrong. She even acknowledges this in her recognition that she absolutely cannot have children, not only for narcissistic reasons but also because of the fear of having a boy and ultimately walking down a path of taboo behavior even she does not want to contemplate. It is the only time she ever hints that she cannot control her urges and in fact is helpless when they become too much for her. It is this comment which elicits the hint of sympathy, for if she is truly psychopathic and beset by multiple personality disorders and mental illnesses, her behavior to some extent is not her fault. She is quite frankly very ill.This smattering of sympathy is just that though – very tiny and only because she does recognize her harmful actions. However, as she does nothing about them other than to gratify them, the compassion is fleeting. She is ill but seeks no help. She makes no excuses and seeks every opportunity to rid herself of annoying obstacles to the fulfillment of her desires. Again, she is an absolutely fascinating character that is simultaneously revolting and intriguing.As mesmerizing as Celeste is, her boys are equally interesting. Their involvement with Celeste generates an entirely new path of discussion. One can easily see their manipulation at her hands but surprisingly, one can also see where their physical existence reduces her power. At several points, Jack’s demands/pleas/desires force Celeste to abandon her immediate plans to avoid disrupting the entire arrangement. Her obsession with fulfilling her sexual needs places the power firmly in Jack’s hands, and it is enthralling to watch him realize this fact. Even better, this is something Jack’s eventual replacement understands almost immediately, and it ultimately leads to her downfall. The dynamics of the situations in which Celeste places herself are disturbing and yet captivating because they are so nuanced.Tampa is like the proverbial train wreck. It does not bear watching and yet one’s eyes remain glued to the carnage like a junkie waiting for his next fix. Psychologically, it is one of the best books published. Ms. Nutting explores the pathology of a pedophile and her victims with a detailed exactness that is frightening in its explicitness and yet utterly absorbing. Everything about Celeste is appalling except for that one small modicum of pity when one considers how truly sick she is, while the boys garner both pity and a bit of fear once they realize their own abilities for manipulation. It is a shocking and utterly unforgettable story, and it is no wonder the book world is all abuzz about this breathtaking story.

If you have heard of this book, then you already know it is not for everyone. It is the story of a 26 year old female school teacher who purposely teaches middle school so she has a large group of 14 year old boys upon which to prey. She is a sexual sociopath with no qualms about doing whatever it takes to satisfy her sexual urges. While I felt the author conveyed the predator aspect of the character to a tee, I did have some troubles with the first few chapters. Not the sexual content in and of itself, but the utter obsession that it showed. I had a hard time understanding how she could be so fully consumed with sexual desire and yet somehow have the wherewithall to carefully plot her next victim. Typically that level of preoccupation would seem to cause an irresistible desire that would need to be quenched prior to being able to logically plan a "hunt" for a suitable target. Beyond that, however, we see a cold, calculating predator that will not be stopped. Tampa is a disturbing novel, but in the end it sticks with the reader. It leaves open so many avenues for discussion. It brings up the way we as a society treat female sexual predators different from males. There are no answers here... no happy endings.. just uncomfortable, disconcerting experiences.

This book is...different. Nutting succeeded in delving into the hideously grotesque minds of female sex offenders. I noted that at least a 3rd of the scenes felt unnecessary (perhaps thrown in for extra shock factor) which seemed to sidetrack the story from the character study, and drew more attention to the lewd and off-putting sexual acts committed. That said, the focus on erotic encounters highlighted just how much the sex offender needed therapy (to say the least!). To summarise my thoughts: too much sex and not enough character development, but a brave and applaudable attempt by Nutting to broach the taboo and sensitive topic that is female pedophilia, whilst, more importantly, raising the differences in which female pedophiles are treated differently to their male counterparts in not only media, but the eyes of society and the law.

Well-written and very hard to put down - but . . . very unpleasant and not very believable story about a woman pedophile. Truly I thought she had imagined a male pedophile and then changed the main character to a female. Not really sure about the need for a book like this. It did remind me of Notes on a Scandal, of course, but this was written in a much more titallating manner.

Celeste Price is twenty six. She is blonde and gorgeous. She is married to a hunky cop and teaches eighth grade. She is also a sociopath and a predator, with a penchant for adolescent boys.The novel is told from Celeste’s perspective and it’s not a pretty place. Feverish, calculating and dripping with sexual obsession. It’s like a mash-up between Lolita/ American Psycho, although her character makes Humbert Humbert, look like Mr. Rogers.This is comedy at it’s darkest pitch. The sex is graphic and relentless, mirroring the main character’s twisted mind. Obviously this book is not for everyone, especially the prudish or faint of heart, so beware, but the author pulls no punches here and the novel has a lot to say about how society looks at women, especially very attractive ones.A cautious recommendation.

Inspired by the case of Debra Lafave, with whom Alissa Nutting attended high school, Tampa exposes the secret sexual obsession of twenty eight year old high school English teacher, Celeste Price.It is the beginning of the school year and as each class files in, Celeste studies the male students carefully, looking for a boy, ‘undeniably male but not man’. It is fourteen year old Jack Patrick, with “[s]omething in his chin-length blond hair, in the diminutive leanness of his chest’ that captures her attention and whom she sets out to seduce.Written in the first person, Nutting exposes Celeste as a narcissistic sociopath, with a sexual preference for young teenage boys. Driven by her insatiable desire she pursues Jack not for their mutual enjoyment, nor to forge an emotional connection, but to satisfy her all consuming lust. As a sociopath Celeste cares for no-one “Why did anyone pretend human relationships have value?” but is aware her proclivities would invite censure and so is careful to manage situations in order to allow herself some freedom. She drugs her husband, a police officer, to avoid his suspicion and his libido, drives Jack hours out of town for sex in her car, remains in an isolated classroom because it has a lock on the door.Tampa is explicit, shockingly so, but not erotic from my perspective. If anything I felt slightly ill and my mind shied from any attempt to visualise the interactions between Celeste and Jack. It helps that Celeste is so emotionally detached, while Jack is lamenting it will be four years before he can marry Celeste, she is already, in part, considering her exit options for when his attractiveness to her wanes.Nutting has said she wrote Tampa in part to expose the double standard society applies to the sexual proclivities of gender. Women responsible for the seduction of teenage boys consistently receive lighter sentences, and less censure, than men who prey on girls. Similarly girls are treated as vulnerable victims, cruelly exploited, while boys are generally viewed as less so.“I was bikini clad, lounging on the hood of a spots car, my blond hair fanned back in the wind. “If you were a teenage male”, the commentator began, pointing a leering finger back at the photo [of Celeste], “would you call a sexual experience with her abuse?”Though the issue is raised directly only briefly during Celeste’s trial, the story itself addresses the ideas in subtle ways. Buck, for example, doesn’t find anything remiss with Celeste giving his son personal attention outside of school hours, whereas a male teacher paying the same attention to a female student would immediately raise suspicion.Tampa is described as satirical but I think this is where the novel falls down for me. I think there is too much truth in Celeste’s warped perceptions, though many readers may choose to comfort themselves with the idea that women like Celeste do not exist, even though we would all agree men like her do. In the same way the purported humourous elements escape me.Tampa is a confronting read but also absorbing in its raw and unflinching portrayal of a disturbed mind. I admire Nutting for her bravery in stimulating discussion about the way in which we view female sexual predators, and their victims and I hope that message is not lost on readers, and the media, in amongst the sensationalism.

This book is not for the faint of heart. The story is about a sexy twenty six year old female teacher who I would characterize as a sex addict who has a penchant for 14 year old boys. At the beginning of the school year she scouts out the prospects and when she decides she goes into stalking mode. Things are somewhat complicated by the fact she is married to a handsome policeman Her scheming does unravel somewhat at the end but not totally. There is a great amount of graphic sexuality in the book some of it of a "non traditional" nature. So was the book written simply to stimulate or is there a greater question involved here. This book did make me think. If the principle character had been a 52 year old man would I have looked on him differently. Is there a big double standard in our country over this issue - The teenage boys generally would be open to an encounter like this from the start anyway. Right? So if you have a stern make up I recommend that you read this book.

Advanced edition kindly provided by Netgalley.This was an unbelieveably good read. I could not put it down. Incredibly graphic and disturbing, the writing was nonetheless fantastic. For a psychogical fiction fan like myself, what a compelling tale Nutting tells. The author has obviously extensively researched the obsessive tendancies of the pedophile. If you can manage to get past the explicit sexuality, the novel provides great insight into the various personality traits and compulsions of a modern-day psychopath. Sure to be a bestseller. Highly recommended.Four and a half out of five stars

After reading Lolita earlier this year, I was excited to read a story with the genders reversed. Well, Nutting is no Nabokov and Celeste Price is no Humbert Humbert. Do not even approach this novel with expectations that they will be similar because they are nothing alike. You will be severely disappointed.Celeste is depicted as a total psychopath--a predatory woman who has no natural affection for anyone or remorse for hurting anyone. She is consumed with her sexual desires and they are all that matters. Okay, I get that. I can buy that these urges torment this woman and rule her life, but making Celeste so unrepentant and predatory seems extreme. Not only do I find it hard to believe that someone would feel no shame for such actions or be so aggressive in them, but it distances the reader--especially when Celeste delves into her obscene and ridiculous fantasies. Much of the book felt hyperbolic. There was no elegance, no subtlety, no undertones that sent shivers through my body--everything was in your face and felt melodramatic. Some of this may stem from a naivety that I just can't believe someone would be this selfish or disgusting, but even Humbert Humbert was charming in his own twisted way. It seems as though Nutting was more interested in creating a monster than creating a real character.Beyond that, the writing was difficult to swallow. I don't mind the graphic bits. I'm not referring to that at all. But the writing style was often ridiculous. Celeste seems to speak with language and syntax that suggests she is educated, but the language is overwrought and is flimsy in terms of intelligence. It seems as though we are supposed to be impressed with how she uses language but there is clearly no reason to be. In fact, it's the opposite. This may be a part of Nutting's plan--to further develop Celeste into this over-the-top creature feature--but I think it was the wrong route. Not only did it make me want to set the book down on several occasions, but it was completely unnecessary--especially if it was being used simply as a tool to "establish" Celeste's "character." There are better ways to develop characters.The good I got from this book is the challenge to assumed morality that it poses. Are there people out there like Celeste Price--monsters in the truest sense of the word? If there are, what should be done with them? Can we trust someone who has committed such crimes to not do them again? In Celeste's case, we know we can't. How do we decide who to let start a new life when they all might be plotting the next time they can give into their disgusting, harmful, predatory urges? I wish these themes would have been played with more instead of the circus ride Nutting took us on.

I wanted to rate this book higher. It is extremely well written but the difficulty of the subject matter prevented me from doing so. Still, when one considers the subject matter, it was amazing how the author could help you relate to especially the main character. The amount of detail and thought put into how the character felt, why she did the things she did, could almost allow you to live in her shoes for a brief time. I would recommend selectively to friends who are capable of handling the difficult topic and the vulgar nature of the beginning part of the book.

The controversy around this title is deserved, I believe: its content is deeply unsettling. However, ultimately I found its descent into caricature to be disappointing - after raising issues it failed to offer any real catharsis or shift in its main character. Yes, it's black satire, but it ended up lacking emotional truth within the satire more than I would have liked.

'The rage of lust was like an IV drip in my veins; I felt it beginning to spread inside me with the helpless awareness of someone realizing she's been slipped a drug.'Celeste has the intensity of a psychopath or even a serial killer when it comes to her sexual obsessions. The desperation in doing whatever it takes to satisfy her need was disturbing to say the least. Her complete disregard for how her actions would affect others in her life was unsettling. Celeste is hands down one of the most warped characters in literature I have ever had the pleasure of reading.Comparisons to Lolita cannot be helped (although it could also be compared to Belinda by Anne Rampling, one of Anne Rice's lesser known novels written under a pseudonym), despite the fact it's actually quite different it still manages to touch upon the same subject. Unlike Lolita, this is not a retelling of events or even a confession but a first person accounting of the main characters sexual forays. But be warned, Celeste makes Humbert Humbert look tame in comparison. Nabokov wrote a truly lyrical story that managed to win over many readers despite Humbert's wrongs; he became one to be pitied. Nutting has done the opposite with her character Celeste and does not ever intend for you to pity her or feel sorry for her affliction. She's extremely lewd and vulgar and the pages reek with indecency and she's not ashamed to admit it. 'I found that sometimes it was a relief to do something unattractive in private, to confirm that I'm deeply flawed when so many others imagine me to be perfect.'She found anyone that had begun to show signs that adolescence was leaving them to be completely foul and disgusting and was utterly envious of the female children of her class. The fact that she was flawless and appeared much younger than her true age I think was the only mitigating factor that prevented her from personally disgusting herself as she took extremely good care of herself to avoid showing signs of her age for as long as possible. It could also be said that her sexual encounters with the younger boys was seen as a purifying or cleansing ritual in her eyes. Bottom line, she was an extremely disturbed individual.Tampa is a book that opens up the discussion that women are obviously not always the victim, that they can be just as guilty and just as psychopathic as their gender counterpart. It's a topic that forces you to look at the stereotypes in society today whether it is gender stereotypes or even stereotypes based on looks alone. Also, it definitely brings to light how the pursuing of an older woman no matter the age of the pursuer has become slightly glamorized over time. In an interview with Cosmo (incredible review, definitely worth a read), the author stated that there is a void in literature about female sexual psychopaths and she sought to fill it. I can't think of any books related to the topic either but I have to applaud the fact that Nutting tackled this subject head-on and didn't water it down simply to avoid controversy. The extensiveness of her sexual conduct did at times seem gratuitous and left you feeling just as empty as Celeste, however, there’s no denying this was an exceptionally scandalous yet efficiently written debut novel.

Twenty six year old Celeste Price is the perfect apex predator. Beautiful, well off and manipulative , she stalks her prey with a single minded ruthlessness. Her prey are fourteen year old boys. Despite being married to a handsome police officer who was born into a wealthy family, Celeste pursues her obsession with a single minded intensity that cannot be diverted. She lands her dream job as a middle school teacher and promptly begins an affair with one of her less physically developed students. Over the course of the school year she becomes ever more involved, knowing that soon her prize will age out and she will need to find a new subject. The beauty of her new position she feels is that there will be an endless supply of candidates, year after year. But even the most carefully laid plans and the most manipulated of young lovers can come unglued. Far sooner then she would have expected, Mrs. Price's double life becomes totally unraveled, the shock of a community and the devastation of a young boy.

OK. First things first. This is not a book to buy grandma for Christmas. If this was a Channel 4 TV programme it would be preceded with a voiceover saying "warning - the following programme contains adult themes of a strong sexual nature and of explicit nudity". If you own this book and have teenage boys in the house I would find a sturdy safe to lock it away in.There is a lot of sex in the novel, and I mean a lot. Like on practically every page for the first third of the book especially, and this was before the main character had even got her hooks into one of the students. This, coupled with the front cover which my husband told me assuredly was a picture of a vagina (to which I retorted that it was merely an innocent buttonhole and to keep his dirty thoughts to himself) meant that I found this book rather embarrassing to read on my public transport work commute. The more I opened up the book to hide the cover, the more I displayed paragraphs of copious shagging to whoever might happen to be glancing over my shoulder. It felt like there was a flashing arrow over my head with the words "depraved middle-aged woman reading dirty book alert" emblazoned on it.It's a book that means to shock, mostly as the sex offender in question is a hot young woman and not some lecherous old man (not sure why Harvey Weinstein sprang to mind there). Celeste is a married teacher whose libido is off the scale, and unfortunately it is young 14 year old boy students who push her buttons, so to speak. For the first third of the book I thought it was very OTT on the graphic sexual content, and the protagonist preying on young teenagers was a very unsettling context. However, unlike 50 Shades of Grey which is all sex and no writing talent, Nutting is a good writer, and once the storyline properly gets going it becomes a gripping and witty read. The reader never becomes sympathetic to Celeste and her deviant ways, but her extreme sexual predator nature makes for some very funny scenes. There's also a great minor character - a fellow teacher - who's akin to Melissa McCarthy's Megan character from the film Bridesmaids, and she adds a lot of humour.It's an unsettling book, and Nutting purposely does that to you as a reader. You're happily reading away one minute and then feel decidedly uncomfortable the next for enjoying a book that has a sexual deviant who preys on young people at its core. She also pushes some interesting questions within the book. If the sexes were reversed we'd be in no doubt that the (male) teacher was a disgusting paedophile, but when it's a hot young female teacher and pubescent sex-obsessed boys who are willing accomplices does it still feel like clear cut abuse?This is most certainly not a book for everyone, and on that basis I would not recommend that you all rush out to your local bookshop to pick up a copy. Having said that, it's a good read.4 stars - shocking yet funny and unlike anything you'll have read before. Now to pick up something suitably straight-laced to redeem my reputation on the bus...

Let me just start out by saying that Alissa Nutting doesn't care if you're uncomfortable. There's not a page of this novel that doesn't make somebody unhappy. Celeste Price is a twenty-six year old middle school English teacher. She's also a pedophile, relentlessly fantasizing about boys and then using her position to prey on them. Like Humbert Humbert, she's full of rationalizations about her behavior; unlike him, she's devoid of the cultural wrappings that served to make what he did palatable. She's perfectly aware of the potentially devastating consequences to herself if she is unmasked and utterly unconcerned about the effects on the boys she manipulates. Tampa is told from Celeste's point of view. It's an unpleasant place to be. She's a consummate manipulator of everyone from her victims to her husband to her co-workers. She knows how to use her youth and beauty to distract people. She's also deeply insecure as her ability to lure victims is entirely based on her youth and beauty. Nutting is doing some interesting work here. She's written a compelling, compulsively readable novel about something terrible. She makes the reader look at what Celeste is doing and the excuses she makes, even as she confronts the reader with how differently we would regard the same narrative from a middle-aged man.

Rarely do I encounter a novel as unique—or as perversely taboo—as this one. Celeste Price, the narrator and protagonist of Tampa, is a beautiful, blonde, 20something eight grade English teacher who is married to an attractive, wealthy police officer. She is also a voracious pedophile who lusts after the 14-year-old boys she teaches. It might be logical to presume that Celeste, in telling her tale, would rationalize her desires, obfuscate, make excuses, or otherwise try to justify her thoughts, feelings, and actions. That is not, however, the case. Despite all of her reprehensible flaws and immorality, Celeste is brutally, icily honest about her lust for pubescent males. She knows she’s awful, and she offers no apologies for her deviant appetites. She is, in fact, quite aware of her libido and the potential consequences—she chooses her targets with great precision and plans her seductions meticulously. She also engages in wild fits of paranoia. And she has a biting, bitter sense of humor that almost—but not quite—makes her just the least bit sympathetic. But the most flattering thing to be said of her character is that she is not an unreliable narrator. While she is quite focused on deceiving her husband, her colleagues, and her administrators about her secret desires, she is utterly frank with the reader.And that stark honesty is just as responsible as her pedophile libido for creating the unease evoked by reading this novel. Not only does the explicit taboo of the narrative create a virtually pornographic guilt within the reader, but Celeste lures us into her confidence, thus implicating us in her immorality as well. We alone are privy to her depravity. Needless to say, this is quite an uncomfortable read. Ultimately, Nutting’s skill as a writer (especially as the creator of such a compelling antihero) triumphs over the novel’s sometimes incredulous plot—a few unanticipated consequences conveniently propel the narrative, and the resolution is not entirely plausible. But Nutting’s style is intriguing enough to spark interest in her future efforts.

Let's be honest, this is a creepy book. The main character is a beautiful young teacher whose all-encompassing purpose in life is to seduce fourteen-year-old boys. She thinks about sex constantly and disturbingly. But here's the impressive part: for all her single-mindedness, her inner monologue is never boring. She's less abstract about her pursuit of pleasure than Humbert Humbert, but this book shares something important with Lolita: it is surprisingly hard to tear your eyes away from the page, despite the discomfort of the subject matter.

Tampa is a disgusting and vile book, which is actually a good thing when it's subject matter is middle school teacher preying on young boys to groom for her sexual desires. The author does not hold back on disgusting fantasies and thoughts running through Celeste Price mind. I think the author really did a good job on having the main character know she likes something she shouldn't and is a pervert, but doesn't really care. The book kind of falls apart halfway through. Price pretending to be interested in Buck, her student's father, in order to get more time and an excuse if she is caught there, not terribly unrealistic but pushing it. Then it goes to Price bringing another student to her ex-student's house, that does not make sense at all especially when she planned and was careful so much before. The trial part kind of redeems the book. Price pretty much gets a slap on the wrist for what she has done. Let's face it, society doesn't see women who have sex with underage boys as awful as they see men who do the same thing with young girls. It's not right, but it is how it is sadly, so the outcome of her trial made sense and what she did after it does too.

It's so hard to judge this book. It has to easily be one of the most controversial books I have ever read. The story is about Celeste Price, think Debra LaFave or Pamela Smart. She is a beautiful, young teacher married to the perfect man. She has everything going for her and is beloved by everyone, because they cannot see the diseased, mentally ill person she is on the inside. Her entire focus from the time she gets up until she goes to sleep is how she can have sex with prepubescent boys in her English class. And has sex she does, in excruciatingly detailed encounters that make you feel like you are reading child pornography. I have taught middle school boys and what was described here was truly sickening to me. I kept trying to find some motivation for Celeste's actions but it boils down to the fact that she is a psychopath clean and simple. No regard whatsoever to anyone else's feelings. Everyone who comes in contact with her has their life destroyed. Reading about how she wrecks havoc on everyone around her was the fascinating part, kind of like viewing a car accident on the highway. I just couldn't look away. It kept my attention until the end but I felt icky after. At my local library this is displayed on a table with the newly arrived teen books. Someone made a mistake.

As expected, the book was dirty and explicit in many places and in many ways. But I did enjoy the amazing writing. I think most of the books that have been put out there that have involved being in a perverted mind has never really did it that well. This writer was able to pull it off though. I enjoyed the book but can only recommend it if you will not have a problem with some dirty, dirty going on.

Nauseating and fascinating at the same time. This account of is easily the most disturbing book I've ever read. I had previously read Alissa Nutting's collection of short stories, Unclean Jobs for Women and Girls, and found them absurd and funny, sometimes gross but very sharp. I can see how the same mind created this book, taking some of the seedy, macabre elements to an extreme. Celeste's meticulous, single-minded pursual of her young target borders on psychopathic, and her detached language is reminiscent of the similarly monstrous American Psycho. This book filled me with a sense of dread, but I couldn't stop turning the pages.

The backstory: Tampa was longlisted for the 2013 Flaherty-Dunnan Prize, an award sponsored by the Center for Fiction for the best debut novel of the year.The basics: Twenty-six year-old Celeste Price is eager to start her new job teaching middle school in suburban Tampa. Her reason: access to fourteen-year-old boys, the only people to whom she is sexually attracted.My thoughts: As I was raving about this novel to my husband shortly after I finished it, he (somewhat jokingly) said that I really enjoy novels about sexual deviance. Stumped, I asked him for other examples, and he promptly replied Room (which he was too disturbed by to finish and I call one of my all-time favorite reads.) Later, I realized I also adored Repeat It Today with Tears (my review), which is about a father-daughter love affair. It's true all of these novels share the theme of sexual deviance, but they're also about so much more than that, which is why I truly love them.I read fiction for many reasons, but one of them is to better understand other people. When news breaks of a teacher having an affair with a young student, the question of how or why a person could do that is often asked. While the question may be meant rhetorically, I love that Nutting embraces the character of the Celeste in an attempt to provide a more complicated answer to the question. Nutting does not hold back. Celeste is a brutally honest narrator, and while some parts of this novel were challenging to read, the novel is better because of them. There are moments when Celeste's relationship with Jack seem almost normal. I loved these moments precisely because they soon seem so very wrong. It's a testament to Nutting's writing, character development, and world building that there could be moments of eroticism in such a taboo relationship. Because Celeste is the reader's window into this world, it's easy to be swept away with how she sees the events, but it's still difficult to imagine a happy ending to this novel as Celeste's actions become more reckless. Celeste's collision course with repurcussions is made all the more fascinating by the depth of its set-up, and the final pages of her story are the truly perfect ending. The verdict: Tampa is a novel that reminds me why I will always love fiction best. Alissa Nutting masterfully gets inside the mind and body of Celeste. The result is a modern masterpiece whose story can only be told this deeply in a fictional way, and its haunting final pages will stick with me for a very long time.

Loosely based on true events, Tampa is the fictional account of Celeste Price, a beautiful young8th grade teacher sexually obsessed with adolescent boys. Fourteen is her target age, before they start turning into men.Celeste has an empty marriage to a cop named Ford, who’s almost too handsome himself. She can barely stand the thought of him touching her and has to drug herself to have sex with him. Sometimes she drugs him to avoid sex. The book is all about sex, is sexually charged throughout, and the language reflects this. A student’s raincoat is “A hideous color, like the erection of a dog.” The voice is Celeste’s and it is confident, true and pitch perfect throughout the story.Celeste is a narcissist with an extraordinary ability to ignore the wrongness and consequences of her actions. The only time Celeste doesn’t seem to be dissembling is when she admits to not wanting children because if she had a boy she would eventually be tempted by him. And when she tells the baffled Ford – after all has been revealed – “It’s just what I like.” She is unrepentant until the last word of the novel. Celeste’s obsession is who she is.

Oh ick.So I kinda knew a tiny bit of what I was getting into with this book - but no, not really.I understood in broad strokes what the subject matter would be. I should have know by looking at the atrocious cover that it was going to revel in explicitness.I think I understand what Nutting is trying to do with this book. There is a lot of shock value here that helps illuminate hypocrisy in society and double standards - it also presents a case for a sociopath like we (I) have never seen before. All that being said and taking in and appreciating her points, I just think (and completely concede that my age and ever growing fuddy-duddiness might be a factor) that this kind of provocative writing makes having any kind of intellectual conversation following reading it challenging.I am amazed that this book is being so widely read and promoted. She certainly did a great job of choosing a subject that has piqued this interest of many, In the end - I wish I had spent my time reading something else.

Wow.So, after reading this book, I completely understand why it provoked such strong reactions from people when it was released. I mean, who really WANTS to read a book about a sexual predator using her status as a teacher to seduce young men into destructive relationships? But, I have to admit, I couldn't put it down. I literally read this book in less than a day. It sucked me in like a train wreck you can't look away from and didn't let up until the unbelievable (unless you watch the news) ending.I'm sure by now everyone knows that this book is filled with graphic descriptions of sex and it pulls no punches. You WILL want to take a shower after reading it - it's that gross. Even more disturbing than the graphic nature of the book was the honest, almost sociopathic way in which Celeste, the protagonist, goes about explaining what drives her.The book opens as Celeste, a 24-year-old 8th-grade teacher in Tampa, is preparing for the first day of school. Over the next several weeks she'll peruse the available students in her classes and settle on Jack, a quiet 14-year old in her English class. She then seduces him and embarks on a sexual relationship with him, dodging her police officer husband, his absent divorced father, and a handful of potentially nosy neighbors and coworkers.There is no pretense of feelings on her part, though Jack romanticizes the relationship - for Celeste, it is entirely about sex. Her non-stop fixation on sex borders on the pornographic. (This is not a book you will be inclined to loan out to people or recommend to friends.) Claire is a sociopath. She doesn't attempt to rationalize or pretend that her desires are something they aren't, nor does she attempt to elicit sympathy from the reader by blaming her predilections on past trauma, they just are what they are. She wants to dominate every situation, emotionally manipulating everyone in her life to cave to her needs, and she is matter of fact about it, from start to finish. Strikingly, Celeste speaks of no friends with whom she has an honest relationship. Every single one of the few relationships she has is based on a lie. She shows no contrition for her deviancy, nor does she make any attempt to control it.Through straightforward, graphic prose and a well-developed female antagonist that will remind you of Gone Girl, Nutting has given us an American Psycho-esque look into the mind of a predator. While I'm not sure I liked it, I'm glad I read it.

"This is an odd one to rate and review. Was it well-written? Oh, yeah. Almost... too well-written. Felt a couple times like the plot was a bit too overtly manipulated to steer the story toward a particular conclusion, but maybe I&#039;m just being picky.Was it entertaining? Hell, yeah. It was hilarious, in the way that sociopaths can be hilarious with their overriding desire to please themselves at the expense of all others (and specifically, Celeste&#039;s inner thoughts about those around her.) The voice of this novel felt so real and so alive, it would be hard to believe that this specific person doesn&#039;t actually exist out there, somewhere.Was it arousing in uncomfortable ways. Well, yeah. As a guy, it&#039;s difficult not to imagine my own 14-year old self being in that situation, and how amazing it would have been. But then my 14-year old son would walk into the room while I was reading, and that fantasy reading world would come crashing down around me like a controlled demolition. That&#039;s when the creepy factor really sets in with this book. Removing yourself from Celeste&#039;s fantasy world (which is all-encompassing, as this is written from her first-person perspective) makes the book uncomfortable. Imagining if the gender roles were reversed, makes it creepy as fuck.Bravo, Alissa Nutting, for creating one of the most memorable characters I&#039;ve ever read. But this is not a book I plan on revisiting any time soon. Or ever."

Alissa Nutting's Tampa will draw obvious comparisons to Nabokov's Lolita solely because of their similar subject matter, but Tampa is a very different novel. Lolita is marked by high modernist language; lush, playful, and tricky. This is a novel marked by the cool sparsity of our contemporary postmodernism. Celeste Price is a sociopath, a calculating personality that aims to manipulate everyone around her to her greatest benefit. The psychological depth of her character is formed by Nutting's tight prose, and it is a highlight of the novel. The most disturbing thing about the novel though is how deeply it is entrenched in superficial American materialism. Celeste's beauty and status blind everyone to her damaging obsessions and her cruel manipulations. Until they do not, but what that requires is shocking. This novel was surprisingly well crafted and handled a touchy subject matter with precision. Part suspense and part cultural satire that gives an unnerving portrait of a sexual predator. I want to read Nutting's first book, a collection of short stories, and see what other themes she explores.

"... thirty-one is roughly seventeen years past my window of sexual interest." (p.1). Thus, Celeste describes her husband, and thus, right from the start she makes clear what she wants. Celeste is a female, predatory pedophile.Sadly, repeated sex scandals over the past three decades have numbed readers, and although sexual assault on children by pedophiles still evokes horror, Tampa, by Alissa Nutting is much more a parody than a shocking novel.The inversion, of making the pedophile in Tampa a female character highlights the groteskness of the idea. Pedophilia is grotesk of itself, and Alissa Nutting uses hyperbole to magnify the problem: the disproportionate, excessive weirdness of Celeste Price is almost humoristic.Celeste Price is married to the over-averagely handsome Ford. Aged 26, she works as a high school teacher. She is smart, direct and predatory. The novel is written from her perspective, so the reader follows her ridiculous reasoning in line. Celeste's mind is like a parallel universe. Her predatory, rational acting comes natural to her. Her sexual drive toward young adolescents is complete and hard-core. The novel shuns no taboos. Celeste strives for complete sexual relationships including penetration.Tampa makes the most of its theme, driving Celeste to ever more precarious escapades. Nothing is crazy enough. If she cannot have a boy, she masturbates. She focuses on pupils in her own classes, whom she first approaches after class. If successful, she tries to develop complete sexual relationships with the boys in their homes. Caught, almost in flagrante with Jack's father, she seamlessly proceeds to seduce the father, merely to cover up what has been going on with the son. When Jack's father dies of a heart attack, she takes it in her stride. When boys pass on, or become "too old" she swoops down onto other boys.Most if not all pedosexual scandals in the real world involve men predating on either young boys or girls. A female sexual predator and sociopath such as Celeste Price in Tampa, do they exist? The psyche of Celeste is a clever construct, whether 'realistic' or not. Nutting does a better job with Celeste's young victims. The psychology of the boys in the novel is quite convincing. Not entirely plausible, though, Tampa has the bravoura of the novels of John Irving, while Celeste has the obsessed mindset of a female American Psycho.Like the novels of John Irving, ridiculous and balancing on the edge of credibility, Tampa by Alissa Nutting is very well written. However, as the novel is very explicit about sexuality, it is clearly not for everyone. Besides, its taboo theme, however close it may come to parody, is probably not acceptable to all readers.